


Little Bunny Foo Foo

by AppalachianApologies



Series: Appalachian's 2020 Whumptober [17]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Bruises, Hurt Spencer Reid, Malnourishment, References to Sexual Assault, Spencer Reid Whump, Whump, Whumptober 2020, as always nothing is explicit or even close to explicit, but there is a case about human trafficking, none of the main characters are assaulted i promise, so read with care please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies
Summary: Local PD needs the help of the BAU when a human trafficking ring turns deadly. Somehow, they've evaded the police until now.Day 17: Blackmail
Series: Appalachian's 2020 Whumptober [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948174
Comments: 29
Kudos: 209
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Little Bunny Foo Foo

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! This fic references human trafficking and sexual assault, but nothing, and I mean nothing, is explicit. The injuries aren't even listed in detail, but please keep this in mind. If this is a trigger, don't read this! You're much more important than a little piece of fanfiction :)
> 
> Uh, yeah! That's all I have to say for today! I love and care about you all, and please enjoy! :D

“Hello lovelies! You all are heading to the Golden State of California! For, oh, that’s not good, for human trafficking. Sorry lovelies. California doesn’t seem so golden anymore, does it?”

Waving her on, Hotch muses, “Continue, Garcia,”

“Right. Sir. Well, local PD are suspicious that there’s a ring of human trafficking going on, but there’s been a change that they need our help on.”

“What changed?” Emily questions, scrolling through the tablet.

With a grimace, Garcia brings up three pictures of dead women, all wrapped in cellophane. “They’re now killing the women and girls, and then tossing them out next to the garbage.”

“So they obviously don’t feel remorse then,” Morgan notes, frowning at the pictures.

With the shake of her head, Blake counters, “Not necessarily. They’re still wrapping them in cellophane. So they’re at least trying to preserve the body for a few more days.”

“Were there any times of sexual assault?” JJ asks.

Turning a shade paler, Garcia admits, “It’s… hard to tell. The coroner determined that all the victims had sexual intercourse, but they said it was nearly impossible to tell if it was consensual because of, oh jeez,” Looking to Hotch she murmurs, “Please don’t make me say it,”

“You’re fine, Garcia. We’ll brief more on the jet. We have a long way to go. Wheels up in thirty.”

*

Settling down with a cup of coffee next to Rossi, Blake questions, “Why do you think they started killing the women? I mean, from a business standpoint that can’t be profitable.”

“Maybe they’re getting too old? These types of traffickers profile as pedophiles,”

“But they’re dumping women well into their twenties. Pedophiles wouldn’t go for women over,” She pauses, frowning at the scum of the Earth, “Sixteen. Why wait this long?”

With a sigh, Rossi quirks up an eyebrow and admits, “I don’t know.”

“The real question is,” Emily speaks up from the side seat, “How did they stay under the radar for this long?”

“Maybe they have someone working with them on the inside?” Blake guesses with a shrug.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone with enough intelligence to maneuver a few dozen women without alerting police.”

Morgan scoffs. “To get away with something like that? They’d have to be some sort of genius.”

*

The local PD is surprisingly welcoming of the BAU. They quickly get the team set up, and are helpful with any questions they can answer. It’s a nice change from the average precinct. Although then again, no precinct wants to be known as the group of officers that had a human trafficking ring under their noses.

Blake’s cataloging dump sites when JJ nearly races in, a file full of pictures in her hand. “Blake,” She announces, “We need your specialty.” Before handing Blake the file. “There’s words written all over the newest body.”

The older agent sighs when she sees the pictures. “Okay, that’s not English,”

“Nope,” JJ agrees, “That’s why we needed you.”

“It’s,” She trails off, turning a few pictures upside down. “Latin? Not just any Latin though. This is- it’s archaic Latin. Outside of prestigious professors, nobody knows this dialect.”

JJ looks about as confused as Blake feels. “Can you translate it?”

“With enough time? Maybe. Not perfectly though.”

“How can I help?”

“Take to Garcia,” Blake instructs, “We need to find out who can write in Archaic Latin.”

*

Barely sleeping and living on straight caffeine, it takes Blake nearly 36 hours to decipher the messages on Corrina Esperanza’s body.

“It was in Greek,” Blake declares, nearly throwing herself into one of the conference room chairs. 

“What was?” Rossi asks.

“The body.” She clarifies. “All of the characters were written in Archaic Latin, but the words themselves? They’re phonetically Greek if you sound it out. No average person could’ve done this.” Blake mutters, rubbing a hand over her face. “Did Garcia find anyone with enough education?”

With a defeated sigh, JJ admits, “No. She started in the area, but she’s had enough time on her hands to look at the entire US. No one she found could’ve done this.”

“Damn,”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Blake huffs, “Call Hotch. We need him, Morgan, and Emily all back here.”

Already pulling out her phone, JJ questions, “What do you want me to tell them?”

“That Esperanza had an address written on her.”

*

SWAT raids the ‘Son and Pop’ burger joint with guns blazing, the BAU hot on their heels. There’s a few civilians dining a late dinner, their faces instantly turning pale from fear. Unsurprisingly, as soon as the owner sees SWAT, they bolt.

With a quick hand signal, Morgan and Hotch follow two SWAT officers down to the kitchen. Or at least, what should be the kitchen. Along with the common items like an industrial grade sink and a few grills, there’s far too many knives that are necessary. In a cardboard box labelled, “Produce: Handle With Care” there’s over a dozen pairs of handcuffs. In another one with the label “Tomatoes” there are old hypodermic needles, and Hotch makes a mental note for future CSI.

“There’s storage downstairs, Sir,” One of the SWAT officers states, motioning to a door. Hotch and Morgan share a look when they see the Door is padlocked with a chain from the outside.

“Move in.” Hotch instructs, bringing his own weapon up.

There’s a quick countdown, before the door is busted open. As suspected, the “storage” room is horrifying. There’s a few shackles, but worse is the blood splattered and smeared over the floor, and even up part of the walls. Against the far wall, there’s a great big industrial freezer, but based off of the lack of light coming from the panel, it isn’t on.

It is, however, padlocked twice, chains wrapping around the handle over and over again.

After a moment, SWAT retrieves the bolt cutters, and they prepare to breach. There’s another quick countdown until the door is swung open, all guns raised.

Inside, there’s a young man, shackled by one ankle, sitting on the floor beside a semicircle of paper. SWAT shouts for him to put his hands up, but Hotch quickly silences that when it’s obvious to him that this kid isn’t an unsub. He might be a victim, but they profiled the unsubs as only going after women.

Hotch turns to the officers before requesting, “Go grab my team. And give me the bolt cutters,” He adds as an afterthought, before moving to crouch next to the victim.

The second he begins to step in, the man attempts to push himself further in his corner. Despite that, he looks up to both Hotch and Morgan, and if Hotch didn’t know better, he’d assume that the kid was sizing them up.

He’s the first one to speak. “You’re police? FBI?”

Morgan quickly nods, having already holstered his weapon. “Yeah, kid. You’re going to be okay. It’s over, we’re gonna get you out of here.”

“Did you find Corri? Corrina Esperanza?”

There’s a quick silent conversation between the two agents before Hotch takes the lead, “Did you know Corrina Esperanza?”

The man frowns for a few moments before answering with a question of his own. “She’s dead?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You said ‘did’ not ‘do.’ Past tense.” The boy answers.

Putting that on the back burner for a second, Hotch holds out the bolt cutters and offers, “Can I get the shackle off of you so we can get you up to the medics?”

“How did Carri die?” He asks, bringing his leg into his body, rather than out. “She didn’t suffer, did she?”

Before Hotch can neither confirm nor deny his inquiry, Morgan speaks. “Kid, what’s your name?”

“Spencer Reid,” He answers, before frowning. “And I’m not a kid.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six years, four months, and seventeen days old.”

Morgan sends Hotch a look from the specificity of the answer, but otherwise doesn’t say anything to the older agent. “How long have you been here for?”

“Four years, three months, and three days.”

“Jesus,” Morgan replies before he can stop himself. 

Looking up at him, Spencer asks, “Are you part of the 205 Million Christian Americans?”

“What?”

“Your usage of-”

“Spencer, are you hurt?” Hotch interrupts, concerns growing more and more after every passing moment.

Spencer’s head jerks from pointing from Morgan’s to Hotch’s, and a few seconds later he answers, “Nothing life threatening, no,”

“Other than life threatening?” Hotch asks, face pulled up in a frown.

“My right leg never healed correctly after being broken seven months ago,” Spencer starts, motioning to his unshackled leg, “I’m eighty percent sure I have carpal tunnel in both of my wrists, but there’s a chance my pain could be from cysts, though that’s only like a ten percent chance,” He mumbles, “I’m moderately malnourished, and there are bruises on my shoulders, thorax, and abdomen.”

Morgan looks like he’s about to punch something, but Hotch quickly stands up to bat. “Spencer, we need to get you out to the medics. Can I remove the shackle from your leg now?”

“No.” Spencer replies, surprising both of the men. “Tell me how Corrina Esperanza died. And then I’ll willingly see the aforementioned medics.”

“Spencer,” Morgan starts, before Hotch cuts him off.

“I’ll tell you when you’re being seen by the paramedics,” He bargains.

“No. Tell me now. Did she suffer?”

“Did you know her?”

In lieu of an answer, Spencer replies, “She was one of the girls that had been here the longest. Your lack of answers tells me that she suffered before she died. How bad was it?”

“We’re getting you to the paramedics,” Hotch announces, reaching down to finally cut Spencer free.

“No!” Spencer shouts, pushing himself further into the corner.

“Spencer, you’re hurt, and this is a crime scene,” Hotch points out, but doesn’t advance any further.

Huffing, Spencer insists, “You don’t understand, I can’t leave,”

“Shit,” Morgan whispers, rubbing a hand over his face. This isn’t a Stockholm situation that they’re dealing with, is it?

Ignoring his subordinate, Hotch tries, “Is this about Esperanza?”

“No, I just can’t leave,”

“Can you tell us why?”

Spencer looks to the ground and frowns, waiting a few moments before admitting, “My mom.”

“What’s happened with your mom, Spencer?”

“They’ll hurt her if I leave,” Spencer quietly mumbles. “If you haven’t caught Robin, and they find out I’m gone, they’ll hurt my mom.”

With another worried glance, Hotch asks, “Who’s ‘they’?”

“The company,” Spencer easily answers.

Taking a sharp breath in, the Unit Chief questions, “Spencer, how many people are in the company?”

“The buyers? Or including the girls?”

Morgan clenches his fists. “The buyers.” When he gets his hands on these men, he isn’t sure that he’ll be able to take them off until they’re dead.

“Twenty-seven.”

“How do you know this?” Hotch asks.

“I do all of the calculations for them. That’s why they took me in the first place. They’ve been using me for my brain, rather than my body.” Spencer says it so nonchalantly, and it makes Hotch’s blood boil even further.

However he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because Blake’s making her way down the basement stairs. Glancing to Hotch, she confirms, “Victim?”

“Not the way that you’re thinking,” Hotch cryptically answers.

But before she can begin her questioning, Spencer speaks up. “You’re Doctor Alex Blake.” He states, causing all three heads to turn to him.

“Do you know me?” Alex asks, crouching down next to Hotch.

“I went to three of your lectures when I was fourteen,” Spencer answers, which just raises more questions between the agents.

After a beat, Hotch points out, “We need to get him to the medics, but he’s refusing.”

Frowning, Blake asks, “What’s your name?”

“Spencer Reid.”

“Why don’t you want to get checked out by the paramedics, Spencer?” She asks, using the mom voice she hasn’t been able to utilize for over a decade.

Swallowing, he admits, “They’re going to hurt my mom.”

“Who’s your mom?”

“Diana Reid. They’ll hurt her,” He reiterates, just to get his point across further.

Nodding, Blake soothes, “We can get protective custody on her, okay? You really need to get checked out though,”

Shaking his head, Spencer answers, “You can’t put her under protective custody.”

“Why not?” Hotch asks.

“She lives in Bennington Sanitarium in Las Vegas. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic whose worst fear is the government, and the agents that come with it. She’ll never accept protective custody, and her doctor wouldn’t let her go in the first place.” During the entire answer, Spencer keeps his eyes focused on the floor.

Blake swallows. “Were they blackmailing you this entire time?”

“Yes. Why?”

Not knowing how to answer his question, Blake just sighs. “Spencer, we’ll make sure your mom is safe. Our priority right now is you.”

Out of all of the things in their conversation, that sentence is the one to make him frown. He doesn’t think he’s ever been a priority.

“You promise my mom will be safe?” He confirms, looking up like a child.

“I promise,” Blake nods with a smile. “Can we get you out of here now?”

Spencer nods. “Sure.” He then pushes his shackled leg out in front of him, watching as Hotch cuts it off with the bolt cutter.

Using the freezer wall, Spencer attempts to pull himself up. It’s been months since they’ve let him walk around, and his muscles are no doubt severely atrophied. It doesn’t help that he’s malnourished and his right leg never healed correctly. He takes a single step forward before he collapses under his own light weight.

“Whoa, kid,” Morgan mutters, grabbing one arm to keep him upright. Wordlessly, Hotch supports his other side.

“Blake,” Hotch starts, “Will you go prepare the medics?”

She’s off with a single nod, taking the discarded bolt cutters with her.

While helping Spencer up the stairs, Morgan points off, “Jeez kid, you’re light,”

“I’m not a kid,” Spencer counters, willing his legs to work.

“At this weight you may as well be,”

Spencer opens his mouth to argue, but Hotch silences both of them with a, “Morgan,”

When they get him deposited in the ambulance, Spencer looks up to Blake, pausing a moment before asking, “Do you have a phone?” After Blake’s nod, Spencer continues, “Can I call my mom?”

It breaks her heart, how young he sounds. Despite his insistence, Spencer still seems like a child. A child wrapped up in the human trafficking scene.

After getting confirmation from Hotch, Blake holds her phone out, already on the number pad. Spencer quickly snatches it from her grasp, but then just sits with it in his lap.

“Is everything okay, Spencer?” Blake asks, moving to sit by him.

“Was I declared dead?” He asks, which certainly catches her attention.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been gone for over four years. Ninety percent of kidnapping victims don’t survive past the first twenty-four hours if they’re not being used for leverage or ransom, so it’s likely I was declared dead within the week. Was I?”

Blake gives him a soft smile, before she admits, “I don’t know. I think I can check, but I’d need my phone back for that.”

Handing her phone back, Spencer asks, “Please,”

Garcia answers on the first ring. “Blake! Lovely one of a kind woman, what can I do for you?”

“I need you to look up a police report about Spencer Reid. It would be in Pasadena, and dated around four years ago.”

“On it!” Garcia calls, keys clacking in the background. “Okay,” She starts, eyes scanning her screens, “Let’s see, on September fourth, 2003 Spencer’s roommate, Ethan, reported him missing after he never came back from, oh jeez, that class has way too many syllables for me to name. Quantum something-something or other,”

Smiling at Garcia’s small rambling, Blake asks, “What did the detectives do?”

“Uh, let’s see. Oh. Ouch, they didn’t do much. Apparently his mom is schizophrenic, and when the LEOs heard about this, they declared that he probably had a schizophrenic break because he was the right age for one, and stopped looking for him.”

As much as she wants to scream, Blake stops herself. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Apparently a month later his roommate, Ethan, came back, demanding that they keep looking. It was then that they declared Spencer dead. Poor thing, he was so young.”

“Well Garcia,” Blake smiles, “I have good news for you,”

“What’s that?”

“Spencer’s sitting next to me. He’s alive,”

Blake pulls the phone away from her ear when she hears a loud squeal, but she can’t help but smile. Saving victims is the best part of the job. “Oh my God, wait, was he gone this entire time?”

“Yes,” Blake answers, not bothering to sugar coat anything.

“Is there anything I should be doing for him?”

“I don’t think so,” She honestly answers, “He just wanted to call his mom. And I think he was wondering if she thought he was dead.”

There’s a pause on the phone before Garcia sadly notes, “Oh,”

“You’ve been a big help, Garcia,” Blake starts, “But I’m gonna let you go now, because I only have one phone.” She adds with a laugh.

“Say hi to Spencer for me?”

“Will do. Bye.”

“Bye!”

When Blake takes the phone away from her ear she’s greeted with Spencer staring her down. “Who was that?”

“Our technical analyst, Penelope Garcia,” Blake takes a breath before continuing, “You were declared dead a month after reported missing. I’m sorry, but I can only assume that your mom was told the same.”

With an awkward pulled smile, Spencer answers, “That’s okay. I’d still like to call her.”

One of the paramedics gives Blake a disappointed smile. “Ma’am, we really have to-”

“Just one minute,” Blake interrupts, not feeling bad at all. None of Spencer’s injuries are serious, and she understands that he needs to talk with his mom. “Here,” She notes, holding out the phone for Spencer to grab once more.

She watches as Spencer dials it like he’s been waiting to do so for years.

Which he probably has.

There’s about a minute of silence from when Spencer holds the phone up, until he suddenly announces, “I’m calling to talk to Diana Reid… No, yes, this is her son, Spencer Reid. I’m not dead, please don’t hang up… October eleventh, nineteen eighty-one… Yes. Okay, yeah, good, I’m glad… Thanks.”

Blake feels awkward listening in to half of the personal conversation, so she busies herself with Hotch and Morgan. Even then, she can’t help herself from continuing to listen.

“Mom? Hi. It’s me, Spencer… How did you…?” Spencer gives a wet chuckle, holding onto the phone for dear life. “No, I know, you’ve always said that,” Letting a tear slip down his face, Spencer quietly notes, “I guess a mother does really know,”

Blake swallows, forcing herself to look engaged with Morgan’s conversation. Even with only listening to one side of the conversation, Blake knows that Diana Reid is a smart woman.

Because if there’s one thing she’s learned from her own motherhood, it’s that one thing will always be true:

A mother knows.

**Author's Note:**

> This honestly needed to be about 1-2k more words, but I just have to stop myself, otherwise Whumptober will be unobtainable. There's a lot of allusions in this piece that I meant to explain further, but I just. Didn't. Whumptober is lowkey killing me, but in a good way? It's a good challenge, writing every day and all that haha.
> 
> I just want to say- all of your comments made me feel so much better. Yesterday I was dealing with unhappy things and ended up crying, and it was not fun. And then about an hour later I decided to check on my fics, and seeing all the kudos and comments from you guys just made me feel incredibly better. There honestly aren't words to show how much I appreciate you all. Just.
> 
> Thank You.
> 
> If you'd like, you can come talk with me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/appalachianapologies) (AppalachianApologies) I always love meeting you all :)
> 
> I love you all very much, and I hope you all are doing okay. If you find yourself in a bad or scary situation, here are some hotlines (Please keep in mind that the written out numbers are US hotlines)
> 
> National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255  
> National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673  
> National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233
> 
> If you don't live in America and need someone to talk to, here's a list of [international hotlines.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines)  
> You are not alone, and I love you all <3
> 
> Much love to all of you, and take care until tomorrow!! <3


End file.
